Tangled up in Blue

There's no sense of time on the island. We negotiate the pier, walk along the shoreline. We avoid waves, we sense tangles, shells, whaaps and simple twists of fate. Provisions in cupboard we light the stove, pare the tatties, pots on the hotplate we take in more kindlers, peat, logs. The stove glows. The sun dips. CMC tinkles the keyboard; she has difficulty understanding my requests for the top hits of Sun Ra.

No-one saw Blood on the Tracks arriving - least of all Stephen Stills. I never saw the MiltonDuff arriving. Later we will stand outside and watch the Milky Way, stealthily through a rapid violet twilight.